


A Blushing Bride

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Small Acts [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Acts of Treason 'verse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sansa is nervous, Myrcella is a good friend, and Edmure worries unnecessarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blushing Bride

Sansa knocks on Robb and Myrcella’s door the night before her wedding and is relieved when it is Myrcella who answers.

“Is something the matter?” her goodsister asks, a sadly automatic reaction these days.

“I- No, not like that,” Sansa says, suddenly feeling very silly, and blushes. “It is nothing, I will-“

“You will come to Edmure’s solar with me and we will sit by the fire and discuss whatever it is that is bothering you,” Myrcella breaks in firmly, turning away for a moment but leaving the door wide open. Robb, Sansa can see, has pulled on breeches and is setting Ice back in its stand sheepishly. He and Myrcella have a rapid, whispered conversation, their eyes flickering back to her every other word nearly, and then Myrcella leans up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek before pulling her robe tighter around her body and slipping out into the corridor with Sansa.

“What if I’m a bad wife?” Sansa blurts out as soon as Myrcella shuts the door of Uncle Edmure’s solar. “What if Willas-“

“Willas adores you,” Myrcella says, laughing as she takes Sansa’s face in her hands. “Oh, Sansa, how could he not? You will be a  _wonderful_ wife.”

“No, Cella,” she says impatiently, more embarrassed than she can ever remember being in her life. “What if I- What if I don’t  _please him?!”_

Myrcella’s eyes go wide, and then she bites her lip. 

“Come sit down, Sansa,” she says, leading Sansa to the chairs by the fire. “We shall have a little talk, shall we?”

*

Sansa is radiant on Robb’s arm as he walks her the length of the sept, and Edmure cannot help but think of the bizarre number of parallels between this wedding and Cat’s - the beautiful girl with the long, long red hair, the alliance being sealed by the marriage, the way Willas’ hands shake as he wraps Sansa in his colours, just as Ned’s had when he draped grey and white around Cat’s shoulders. The war against the crown, the Mad King, the looming shadow of so much death passed already and more yet to come.

There are differences too, of course - Sansa and Willas are already in love, for one, and this wedding feast is not tainted by the knowledge that Sansa was to wed another. Sansa does not hesitate when Willas leans in to kiss her, nor does he flinch when she lays a hand on his shoulder. 

They watch each other with such blatant anticipation in their eyes as they are carted away for the bedding that Edmure disapproves on principle because Sansa is his  _niece,_ and no matter the uncomfortable knowledge of what a bedding means that he may have, he still cannot approve of any man who will actually lay a hand on Sansa simply because she is Cat’s girl and that is the end of it.

*

Willas’ skin is warmer and softer under her hands than Sansa thought it would be.

He seems as nervous as she is, his hands trembling against her body as he traces the shape of her spine and pulls her closer, lower into his lap.

“So lovely,” he murmurs into her neck. “Sansa-“

She kisses him, ducking her head to find his mouth, and he tastes of summerwine and lemon cakes and suddenly, she does not understand why she was so afraid. Myrcella explained to her about the pain, but she also explained - embarrassingly frankly, considering she is married to Sansa’s  _brother -_ that the pain was only a very, very small part of it, and this is  _Willas,_ after all.

She gasps as the heat of his hand covers her breast, still careful and gentle but moving with more intent now, no longer trembling.

There will be a little pain later, Sansa knows, and in the morning they must return to real life, to war and fear, but for now there is only the soft warmth of Willas’ skin and the taste of summerwine on his tongue, and she feels very foolish indeed for having been afraid.


End file.
